


Beloved

by orphan_account



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Human AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:17:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one time that Thor didn't love Loki–</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted [(here)](http://kaedith.tumblr.com/post/50831920863/beloved-thor-loki/)

You come home at one o’clock in the morning feeling tired and irate because it had been a pretty shitty day at work, and you want nothing more than to crawl into bed, drown yourself in sheets, and stay there for the next two or three days.

As always, when you walk past the study, the door is shut but the lights are on, and if you press your ear to the door, you know you would be able to hear the sound of fingers typing furiously away. Or, if not – sometimes it’s the sound of paper being ripped and crumpled and maybe the sound of the trash can accidentally falling over due to a clumsy move, because he’s forgotten that he’d placed it right next to his chair.

As always, you kick off your shoes by the front – and you are always careful with not disturbing him, but tonight your patience has been worn thin and _you really don’t care_ ; your footsteps are loud and heavy and maybe spiteful.

There’s food set out on the dining table. You shed your jacket and place it carelessly over the back of your chair, but you make no move to actually sit. Past the living room, through the hall, three doors down and into your bedroom – as soon as you step in, things finally seem to settle: the ache in your arms, the sting of a paper cut every time you flex your fingers, and the heaviness of your eyelids.

You want nothing more than to sleep, so that’s exactly what you do. You don’t hear the sound of the study door creaking open; muffled footsteps on carpet first and then into tile, as he arrives at the kitchen; the scrape of a chair and then the clanging of plates; the water running; and finally, lastly, fifthly, most importantly, the ghost of a kiss on your temple and a blanket pulled over your shoulders and the dip of the mattress as he climbs in next to you.

 

 

. . .

You have to come in early the next day. Waking up at five has become second nature by this point in your life, so you have no trouble doing it, even if you’d only gotten four hours of sleep.

He’s asleep when you wake; you don’t rouse him, one part because you can’t bring yourself to, ninety parts because the mood from last night still lingers and you just don’t want to. It persists through your shower, breakfast, and the drive to work.

When the clock signals your second consecutive hour in the work place, it all finally crashes down, and your mind serves you a plethora of small, insignificant memories, except no, if you think about it, they aren’t insignificant at all

– the way there had been two plates set up last night, meaning he had been waiting for you to come home so you could eat dinner together; the blanket that had mysteriously made its way from the end of the bed to over your body; the breakfast that been hot and ready when you stepped into the kitchen –

– the way you had come home last night with this horrifying sense of apathy and carelessness and the fact that you hadn’t talked to him for a whole day, yet you’d made no effort to remedy that –

and when you’re finished recalling these things, you lean back in your chair and grip the edge of your desk when all the _guilt_ finally floods your chest.

 

 

. . .

You come home early.

As always, the study door is closed, and the only sign that someone is in there is the light emanating from underneath the crack. If you press your ear to the door, you know you would be able to hear the clacking of the keyboard, or if not – then sometimes it’s the scratching of a pencil against a sketchbook as the writer’s hand moves idly, suffering from a writer’s block.

As always, you leave your shoes by the front, and as-always-except-yesterday, you make an effort not to disturb him, making sure to avoid the spots in the hall that creak.

You hang your jacket on the coat hanger and, because it’s lunchtime, you roll up your sleeves and start preparing one of his favorite meals.

So loud is the sizzling of bacon that you don’t hear him emerge from the study, not until there are suddenly arms sneaking around your waist and a chin resting on your shoulder and a soft remark of: “You’re home early.”

He doesn’t sound accusing, or angry or hurt or any of those things. You wonder if he even noticed how off you were yesterday. Not that it matters – _you_ noticed your own behavior, and that’s what does.

“What’s this, Thor?” he asks, green eyes amused if anything, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

You turn and put your arms around him too, your hands resting on the subtle curve in his waist that you first found on your first slow dance at your first prom together and–

 –and you catch him by surprise with a kiss, but he doesn’t seem to be complaining with the way he pushes himself up with his toes to compensate for the two-inch height difference.  

“I,” you declare to him, to yourself, to no one, to the world, “love you,” and you move a hand up to cup his cheek. “I love you,” you say while you kiss him again and your thumb traces small circles into the smooth skin of his jaw. “I love you,” you say, over and over and over again, because yesterday you didn’t.


End file.
